INTRODUCTION TO IMMRAMA MEDITATION, #celtic #Irish #Pagan #CelticChristian #meditation

 

INTRODUCTION TO IMMRAMIC MEDITATION

BOOK NOW

In Old Irish literature, we have the tradition of Immrama - voyages to the sacred Isles. In both Pagan and Celtic Christianity, these stories were guides to spiritual journeying, inspiring people to undertake both physical pilgrimages and spiritual "voyages" that linked the three realities - The Otherworld, this physical reality and the inner sacred landscape of the soul.

Deeply rooted in Irish culture, Imramma literature evolved into a traidtion of meditation and soul searching. In modern times, it has become the basis for meditation and journeying practices in traditional Irish paganism and witchcraft.

Introduction to Immrama will explain the historical roots as well as providing a solid foundation in the modern practice as created by acknowledged expert in the mediation practice, Eblanna Raven* and Geraldine Moorkens Byrne, your host and teacher.

*Eblanna passed in 2021, leaving a legacy of wisdom and personal practice in her book "Immrama," (co-written with Geraldine Moorkens Byrne) the first attempt to pass on this tradition.

In this class:

*History of the practice

*Its purpose and uses

*The Archetypes

*The Homeland

*The Sacred Isles

Access to class recordings, chat, files and bonus material included

Suitable for beginners, no previous knowledge of Immrama necessary, no need to have read the book. Some understanding of basic meditation techniques will be provided.

Soul Journey using the tradition of Immrama.

Suitable for beginners, no previous knowledge of Immrama necessary, no need to have read the book. Some understanding of basic meditation techniques will be provided.

BOOK NOW

1.

New Year, Five Simple Words #newyear #resolutions #parenting #creativity

 

Five Simple Words

Each word has power, each sound carries magic for the New Year.

The whole new year's resolution thing isnt for me  at least not in recent years. I've done that, suffered the self recrimination and guilt, given up on the whole debacle. 

Instead, for the last 10 years I've chosen a word or phrase that I feel I'll live up to for the year. One year was "movement" and included exercise and moving forward in other aspects of life. Another year was "dig deep" - deeper spirituality, deeper commitments, exploring the roots of various issues. 

This year all five of us from my 89 year old mother to the 7 year old, chose a word. We're about to print them off and stick them on the kitchen door. We are going to live up to them as a family; even 24 hours in the boys are pointing out opportunities to use them. But before I share our Five Simple Words for 2022, here's some personal context.

Words have power. In Irish spirituality and folk traditions words have immense significance and power, with many layers of meaning attached to certain words and every sound, and syllable, has power. This is their inherent magic. Then there's the power with which we imbue sound and words. Our intent, our private meaning.

When we state intent through words it's a contract; we commit to match our actions to the meaning(s) and we use words as life rafts, to get us across to the next step.

So for 2022 in no particular order, our Five Simple words:

Kindness
Optimism
Perspective 
Calm
Health

Each of us has one that has special meaning but we've all committed to trying to live up to the set. And according to our youngest "that makes Family the most important word!" 

No arguments here 😀

P.s. If you've a word for 2022 share it!!

1.

Bród, a poem.... #bródclub #Irish

RTE have a great initiative going at the moment thanks to Bernard Dunne


http://www.rte.ie/brodclub/


The idea is to get 100,00 Irish people who like me, have some Irish but rarely use it, to start using it again. Dig it out, root through your memory and sprinkle a cúpla focail through your conversations and texts and facebook status updates throughout the day.


I can read Irish fairly well but my spoken Irish is horribly rusty and my grammar was non existent (thanks, school!) til I did a Gael Linn course a few years ago. I still have terrible grammar but thanks to the excellent course I now know what I should be doing to re-learn the rotten Irish we were taught in school and make it better. I kept telling myself that all I need is the time, but you know what? I'll never have the time. So I am taking up the Bród challenge, not putting it off any longer and trying to reawaken then Irish I have and hopefully make it better as I go.

This inspired the poem below. My readers know that many of the forms and structures of my poems come from the Irish, from poems and poetry half remembered, and poetic forms that intrigued me far more than their English counterparts. So I owe a debt of gratitude to my langauge.





Bród



I searched through the foclóir of my life
Looking for my roots, mo Teach, mo Tuath is mo Tir
And found some little treasures I’d forgotten
Little seoda
buried here and there.
I found my bród hidden under layers
Of fear, of criticism and of failure.
I found mo grá in sound and form that flowed.
And in the words of poets long departed,
Found mo teanga náisiúnta
– still great and open-hearted.

1.

Inside Track

Inside Track



He said: Seeing you again
was strange; in a way
I was not sure you existed without me.

Tthat you have a life, a home, friends
that you breathe and speak and think
without my observing, I find odd.

I often think of that now; that space
between intimacy and loss. I have
lost friends and that abyss hurts.

I wonder if they too assume
knowledge, privilege of being current;
or if they feel absence.

I hoard memories and replay
them. They fade despite constant
retouching until only outlines remain.

When I am old, if I make old bones
I will no longer be sure who said
what and whose feat that was.

You cannot leave stories half way
it's too hard to be a main character
without remaining in the plot.

He said he thought I stopped
frozen by his inattention; I did not.
I thrived and grew and moved

1.

Heritage

Written in 1989 Published in 1992, this is one of my favourites from that period - a genuine sense of gratitude to voices that came before me. It is also a genuine snapshot of the arrogance of youth, comparing oneself without guile or self consciousness. The older, humbler poet is amused.
It's also a reaction to the insistence of tutors that all creativity is inevitably limited by
culture and place - I argued for the transcendence of verse, rooted in cultural context.


Heritage

I am the Child of
Plath and Ogawa
but only by adoption

My life is the result
of my struggle
and I have no cultural parents

Alta my mentor
sings my digust to
the stars

I am the child, but
I am learning to sing
for myself

Thank you mothers
but forgive me
If I never use one word you have taught me.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

1.

Promotion

A flicker of amusement
lights the pallid face
of the young man
in the grey suit
with sandy hair; subject of
a nondescript description.
He finds it slightly cheerful that
his boss, who is
a tyrant among slaves
and rabbits
is older/vaguer/paler
than he.
In this, this decay of a man
resides his fondest hopes
and sweet desires.
Such noble cause, such noble man.

1.

At work, My Grandfather

This is the eulogy for my grandfather I wrote many years ago; strictly speaking I don't consider it Juevenilia but it comes chronilogically around this time so I've included it. The first four lines are the Epithet writeen for him by Fr Herman Nolan CP and are inscribed on his gravestone.

At Work, My Grandfather.

Scent of Incense, Glue and Varnish Cease;
Perfect O Lord, thye instrument of Peace.
Fr Herman Nolan CP


I saw my Grandfather at work,
bent. He was old by then
and whitehaired, my father
dark and upright.

I watched the old man
handle wood like it was
his lover; all his tenderness
and poetry in the making

of a single rib - to
play Eve, I suppose
to some Violin.
He had Pianist's hands

like a lady's at the tips
but hard and calloused
at the palm. He used to
work, in the fields at

Summer and at Autumn
and he had cleared land
himself and stood shirtless
in the sun

And worked through the rain.


ii

Now he was where he had belonged
in his own father's place;
his craft he plied, to my child's
eyes, with consumate grace.

I smelt the incense
and he told me the glue
was jelly - that was the story
I have always remembered.

The image of him frail
in gone from my mind;
of his time with us in sickness
i remember only that

mammy and I once cleaned his room
and I sat on the stairs
and cried, when they said
he had gone, and meant "died."

But I remember
I saw my grandfather at work
in a room, surrounded by
shavings, and the smell of wood and glue.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

1.

Beauty at Dusk

The room is stilled
dimmed by evening light through
shuttered blinds
A perfect evening, summer spring
treees laced with early leaves
bright fields, sunlight on windowglass
an empty room
and silence


the brightness of the dusk is
blinding - more glaring than noon in dust
and the silence splinters with shrill throated birds
and distant laughter
til the laughter and the song seem silent too
part of the peace that oppresses this room

the beauty is too perfect
too real for me
it has too much force
a coat of light and long shadows
Exotic; it intrudes.

geraldine moorkens byrne

1.

Cow

This was written about a friend in college who went from being pleasantly spikey in first year to bitter and hard in third. By the time I signed up for my postgrad, she was a loose canon creating havoc with people's emotions. Too young at the time to fully understand her behaviour or the insecurities that fuelled it, I realized reading this that I had nevertheless understood somewhat. I often wonder what became of her, I suspect she subsided from dangerous to petty as time wore on though I hope she got some happiness out of life. The title wasn't an insult by the way!


Cow

She's tired of reminders that life
could be worse
She's sick
of well intentioned pushes
of being propelled, unwilling
t'ward the grassy verges


Her dumbness
mutes her cries of pain
(because I cannot hear I do not care)
Screaming inside her head, she stubbornly
wanders
down the gravel raods
she shudders at the lengths ahead
I hear
they die sometimes of starvation

I wonder how far she got
nursing angry standards
bitter ideals
I wonder did she ever find her past.

1.

Stolen

Lately he has thought of past moments
of childhood's stolen hours
of sneaking past the guardians of his age and sex
and holding to the innocence he felt once
was worth the loss

But if his heart should wander
where will it go?
What is there for its sweet enduring hurt?
What went before, is gone, was never reached and is no
more
and all paths returning stand in silence-
unpassed.

1.

The Trouble with Clouds

I acutally remember writing this one. In the "new" library at UCD, 1987, studying for exams. I even know what I was thinking about when I wrote it! Of all the ones I found this is one I quite like...feedback welcome though!


The Trouble with Clouds

If flat clouds, like airships, hover broad
in the air,
should fall
and touch the earth,
which would melt?

Would I care?
do you?

It seems to me more pertinent han the budget
more necessary near than May and
all it brings
to know which clouds the angels sit on.
Upon.
If I look away from the trees, will they stop
growing and will their leaves wither?
are they fodder for my brain or am I
manure for their souls?
Both. (I think)

Ah Lear! Come in out of the rain.
If every word is wrung from a poet's head
does that make them true?
Accuracy is next to godliness. I thought
you knew.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne 1987

1.

Juvenilia, As Promised

Juvenilia
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
• Learn more about using Wikipedia for research •
Jump to: navigation, search
This article is about the literary term. For other uses, see Juvenilia (disambiguation).
Not to be confused with Juvenalia.
Juvenilia is a term applied to literary or artistic works produced by an author during his or her youth.
The term was first recorded in 1622 in George Wither's poetry collection Ivvenilia. Later, other notable poets, such as John Dryden and Alfred Lord Tennyson came to use the term for collections of their early poetry.


As promised the beginning of the Juvenilia collection

Your Touch

The warm smell of
sleep and heat
surrounds me with your
quilt, your bed
my hair spread like down
across your pillow
and drowsy senses
reaching

1.

Moving on...

Currently in the throes of moving house and therefore clearing out a small mountain of papers; I have found so many different old papers and have scribbled poems and writings and the start of about five different stories.
I am going to gather them together and print them up here, not because they are any good, but becasue they are different. I was amazed at the different voice that came through in these poems, a much younger voice, in some ways more imaginative but in many ways more limited and pretentious. There were elements I really liked and elements I absolutely hated and there were some truely cringeworthy moments as well!

So I'll start posting them up from next week; as ever any and all feedback and criticism is invited. And a virtual pint for anyone who can guess what age I was when writing any given piece :)

1.

Some poems published online...

http://www.scriobh.com/

http://www.poetrylifeandtimes.com/current.html

A pleasant surprise this month, both Scriobh,com and the excellent PLT ezine have published my poetry under featured poets.

1.

Poetry Life and Times August

Poetry Life and Times
Great new edition for August! *


Edited by Robin Ouzman Hislop

This months edition concentrates on the theme of Climate Chaos and Earth’s Revenge.

*(and I'm not just saying that cos I am in it lol)

I have three poems viewable there: Territory, The Murder of Cliona and Angry Rivers

There is also an interview with a poet I admire, Ian Thorpe and other great poetry.

Check it out!
It's a great Ezine and really deserving of support so get over there and read. It also has a new interactive section including news, blogs, polls etc.

1.

At Table

At Table.

I sat with you
at table. Among friends
we broke bread
and your hand reached for mine.

Sup wine from my cup,
steal sweets from my plate;
All good things I have
I offer to you, serve them up.

Are your cheeks flushed?
or is it candlelight and fireside -
the heat of the hall?
or is it my touch, cooler than air...

I sit beside you
at table. We are blessed
in each other and friends
and joined by merry words.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

(I am building a selection of "love poems" some simply poems of love others poetry about love and the condition we call love. This is one of the former, a simple and truthful poem.)

1.

Lugh Among the People

Lughnasadh

Lugh among the people.

i.

Deliberate, in measured steps,

approaching the great circle

leading the people to pray, with the sound of brass trumpets;

Priest or Poet, calling us each to his own, filling our hearts

with the beat of a bodhrán and the sound of the pipes made of thorn

I am the dancer, lost in the rhythm of nature, dancing on the edge

of the world, swinging out over chasms of infinity

lit only by the icecold stars.

Singing a song I heard somewhere

mourning the loss of a woman

of infinite love. I am the Creator of words.

I am the Fiddler. I am the moment when Summer ends,

yet still the sun beats down and the Earth yields.

I am the paradox, of Autumn beginning.

1.

This of Small Virtues

This of Small Virtues.



There are things that endear you to me,
strange items that hang in a wardrobe or
lurk on shelves, shyly advertising you.
The books on weight loss, gathering dust
beside fantasy and sci-fi, testements to your
all too human frailty; the books on
love and self, incongruous in a male library
besides the Cosmos and Relataive physics.
The way you embrace science and all
the oddest facts of our tenuous existance on
this planet; where you maintain mankind are
monkeys in jumpers, but you are openhearted
towards magic and the unexplained.
These are the unresolved equations of your nature
secrets that ambush me as I tidy away, or unpack bags
riddles to the sweet core of your nature
open only to me, only here, in our home.

1.

The Swan

All angular beauty
and ruffled lines
curious in approach
white breasted downy apparition

Closer to your beauty
than before; allowed approach
a temple of wonder
your unique glory

1.

Green Party On

In a week that saw the Greens enter power for the first time in their history;


Green Party On

I walked Tara as a child
on ramparts ancient paused,
while parents stared at vistas far beyond
our youthful minds.

They were from a generation
far different from our own;
not for them the instant or the undeserved,
unearned reward.

Now matrons move their children
to the sticks, to mix with others
in surburban bliss, sans roads and schools
and infrastructure.

The chattering classes sit on
their ass and talk about recycling;
while sympathizing with those who would
bulldoze Tara.

The Green voter pledged to Save
Tara, til they smelt power and
in that moment turned to establishment
and economics.

Converted to Mamon
and to Progress, our most devoutly
prasied god in modern Ireland, sans Heritage
or pride.

Party On Green Men. Pary
while they destroy six thousand
years of dreams and literature and history
and sanctity.

Move to Meath, with your SUVs
and flood the rural scene with stress,
you'll be unmolested by men of conscience, not
in Ireland.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

1.